


i’ll keep breathing [keep moving forward]

by 4beit



Category: The Haunting of Hill House (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Three plus One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27836035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4beit/pseuds/4beit
Summary: you hear shirley get out of bed, hear her cross the room towards you and before she can manage, you say“don’t touch me.” your words are soft, there’s no bite, no malice.“i wasn’t going to.” shirley says and she’s standing close, but not touching “we can buy new gloves.” she says “i know, i know they’re not the same but i know dad keeps money under the sink. we’ll go get you different gloves. okay?”[or: three times someone takes theo’s gloves and one time they give them back.]
Relationships: Shirley Crain & Theodora "Theo" Crain, Theodora "Theo" Crain/Trish Park
Comments: 11
Kudos: 82





	i’ll keep breathing [keep moving forward]

i.

when you wake up one morning, distinctly not thinking about mom and that house and everything that hasn’t been spoken about since the night, a month ago, when everything changed, the first thing you realise is that your gloves are gone. by now, on the nights that you don’t sleep with them on, you reach for them in the morning on instinct. you can slip them on while you’re still half asleep and immediately the world feels quieter, the world feels more under control. now though, now you’re reaching blindly along the bedside table where you know you left them and there’s 

nothing. 

your eyes snap open and you scan the surroundings wildly. you see the clock, you see the lamp, you see the mess of blankets still wrapped around you – but no gloves. they’re not anywhere. you roll onto your side and peer down the side of the bed, wondering if somehow they got knocked onto the floor, 

nothing. 

not a sign of the gloves anywhere. you feel your heart begin to pound in your chest, 

you scramble out of bed, feet hitting the cold hardwood floor and normally you would mind, normally you would be reaching for socks or your dressing gown or literally anything at all that you could wrap around yourself. this morning however the last thing you want to do is reach out and touch _anything_ , especially when shirley’s clothing is scattered around the room too. 

clothing from, 

that, 

night. 

no. 

you’re not touching anything. 

you look over at your older sister, still seemingly asleep in her bed and hiss “shirl,” you’re angry and defensive and you wrap your arms around yourself, gripping at the fabric of your sleep shirt because that can ground you, 

right? 

that can do something?

“shirley!” you say, voice pitching higher, almost shouting now and you see her start, you see her role onto her back. 

she’s blinking sleep from her eyes and she’s letting dream-filled eyes to settle on you “theo?” she groans, looking around the room, then back at you “theo what’s going on?” she says and you can hear the worry in her voice, you wonder if she’s thinking about 

that 

night. 

“my gloves.” you say quickly “my gloves, where are they?” 

you see her glance at the clock, see her sit up in bed while shaking her head “i don’t know,” she says “i didn’t take them.” 

“i put them right there,” you gesture to the bedside table, to the space where you know you left them “and you came to bed after me.” you’re accusatory now, you’re staring her down and saying “no one else has been in here. where are they?” 

“theo,” shirley says, shaking her head “i didn’t take your stupid gloves.” 

“they’re not stupid.” you push back “they’re mine. they’re important.” 

“then maybe you shouldn’t have lost them.” shirley fires back and watch her let out a long suffering sigh as she tugs the blankets up over her shoulders. 

“i didn’t lose them.” you bite. 

‘if you didn’t lose them,” shirley says, her back to you once again “then where are they?” 

you’re about to bite back, you’re about to tell shirley she’s stupid and you know she took your not stupid gloves, but something else happens instead. you hear the door behind you open and you jump despite yourself, you spin, not sure who, 

or what, 

to expect in the doorway. this house, smaller, definitely less haunted, is silent at night. the walls don’t shake and you’re not cold all the time – but just because you’ve left the house where mom died, doesn’t mean it’s left you. 

so you jump and startle when the door opens, but it’s shirley who says, voice more gentle than before 

“it’s just dad.” she says “it’s just dad.” 

you see him in his pajama’s and dressing gown. you see him standing there in the doorway with a mug of coffee in one hand and a look of concern on his face “what’s going on guys?” he says “isn’t it a little bit early to fight?” 

you decide not to tell him that when you have siblings it’s never to early to fight, especially when “shirley took my gloves.” you say “and she won’t tell me where she put them.” 

“i did not.” shirley says, annoyed and angry all over again. 

“ah,” your father says, and something about his tone sets you on edge, makes you take a step back as he takes a step forward “theo,” he says, sitting down on the edge of your bed “about your gloves.” 

you swallow hard, looking at him, looking over at shirley. it’s of little consolation that she looks just as confused as you are about why your dad is acting so weird. 

“i took them.” your father says “you were wearing them all the time and it can’t be healthy for you to-” 

“they’re my gloves.” you tell him “give them back.” 

“now theo,” you father sighs, setting his coffee down on the bedside table “i know you like them, but you can’t wear gloves all the time.” 

“i can.” you say, biting your lip as you feel tears sting in your eyes “they’re my gloves. give them back.” 

they’re not just your gloves. 

or, they are, 

and they make the world a quieter place for you to live in, a safer place where every touch isn’t overwhelming you with someone else's thoughts and feelings and nightmares. not just that, 

“mom gave theo those gloves.” 

and your wiping tears away with the back of your hand when shirley speaks. 

you’re surprised to say the least. 

your fathers eyes go wide, clearly he hadn’t known where the gloves came from. 

“i want them back.” you say “they’re my gloves.” 

“and mom gave them to you.” your father says, looking from shirley, to you. 

“yeah,” you nod, and decide a white lie won’t hurt anyone here “that’s why i wear them. i just,” and you exhale, because the next part is not so much a lie at all “and i miss her.” 

and you do miss her, and you do think of her when you wear the gloves – but that’s not the only reason you wear them. 

not at all. 

but your father doesn’t need to know that. 

“i got rid of them.” your father says. 

you go very, very still “no you didn’t.” you say, at the same time that shirley says 

“why?” in a voice both horrified and angry. 

angry for you. 

“it’s not healthy,” your father says “and if your mother gave them to you, gave them to you while we were at that house?” he turns, looking at you for confirmation and you’re nodding before you can lie. the confirmation seems to settle something in your father and he shakes his head “the gloves are gone theo.”

“why would you do that?” shirley asks, as you’re rooted to the spot, stock still with tears in your eyes “what happened at that house?” 

she’s angry now, angrier than you. angry enough to bring up _that_ question. 

you on the other hand, feel gutted, empty. 

“don’t take that tone with me.” your father says, speaking to shirley now. 

“what aren’t you telling us?” she asks, “what happened, what happened to mom?” 

“enough!” your father shouts, loud enough for you to jump back, to move away from him and for shirley to go still and quiet “we’re not talking about this. and theo.” he says your name sharply “the gloves are gone.” 

you don’t nod. 

you don’t move. 

you don’t do anything but breathe as he walks out of your bedroom. you feel the tears welling in your eyes, feel them roll down your cheeks as you try and take a controlling breath. 

you hear shirley get out of bed, hear her cross the room towards you and before she can manage you say 

“don’t touch me.” your words are soft, there’s no bite, no malice. 

“i wasn’t going to.” shirley says and she’s standing close, but not touching “we can buy new gloves.” she says “i know, i know they’re not the same but i know dad keeps money under the sink. we’ll go get you different gloves. okay?” 

you nod once, the motion jerky and unhinged. 

“why did he take them?” you ask, voice thin. 

“i don’t know.” shirley replies honestly, sadly “i don’t know.” 

ii.

“you know theo,” your gym teacher is saying, trying for the one hundredth time to convince you to try out for varsity swim team “we could really use you on the team.”she sounds honest enough, but mrs. green is looking at you in that way that tells you she probably hasn’t kept you late just to talk about swimming. which, you don’t mind her concern. 

you like mrs. green, really you do. she let you keep your gloves on during gym until sally fucking michaels complained about how it was somehow unfair, or whatever, and the principle himself had called you into his office to declare that additional fashion accessories were not allowed during gym class and really you should have known better. despite the fact that for three fucking years you’d been wearing them without issue. you’d told him that, and as a result got a week of detention for talking back. all the while sally fucking michales looking smug in trig the next day in gym when you’d come out of the locker room gloveless and annoyed as a result. 

“the team won regionals last year,” you remind mrs. green “i don’t think you need me that much.” and you know that’s not the point of this conversation, it never is, but - 

“theo,” mrs. green sighs “i’m just worried that you’re very isolated.” 

and there it is. just because steven swam, and shirley played water polo , mrs. green knows more than most about you and your family and even about what happened to your mom. you like mrs. green, and you know she cares but your wellbeing. 

but you’re better off on your own. shirley graduated last year, nellie and luke are in the eight grade and really, it’s just better for you if you don’t try and make friends. everyone thinks you’re the class weirdo anyway. or, nearly everyone – but you and chrissie aren’t exactly on speaking terms after the make out session at peter marconio’s party three weeks ago. 

which sucks, 

you like chrissie. not like-like, just, as a person, she generally did not suck. 

you tuck your hands behind your back, you lean against the wall of mrs. green’s office “i don’t mind.” you say “it’s easier.” 

“easier?” mrs. green asks, concern knitting her brows together. 

“yeah,” you sigh “easier. everything’s just easier this way.” you glance at the wall clock behind mrs. green “i have to go.” you say “i have a test in trig next period.” 

“of course.” mrs. green sighs “well, if you ever change your mind, we’d love to have you.” 

“thanks,” you say, stepping back, stepping out of the puddle you’d dripped onto the tiled floor of her office adjacent to the pool deck “but no thanks, mrs. green.” 

“if you need a note for your next class theo, come find me.” mrs. green says as you walk away, heading back to the locker room.

* * *

inside, the locker room is practically empty. there’s no one in the showers as you step under the steaming spray and do your best to wash most of the chlorine off your body and out of your hair. it’s a useless task, especially when it has to be done in five minutes or less, so you bail once you’ve warmed up and step out of the showers with a towel wrapped around you. the tiled floor is a mess of water footprints and puddles and - 

you pause. 

you stand stock still as you come to the row where your locker is, 

was, 

still is technically. 

the locker is there, but the lock has been ripped off and your stuff, 

all your fucking stuff has been dragged onto the floor. 

your jeans are sitting in a puddle, your shirt much the same. you backpack is at least still mostly in the locker and its contents seem undisturbed but 

fuck. 

you sit down on the edge of the bench and stare at your stuff, now mostly damp if not entirely soaking wet. 

excellent. 

now you’re definitely going to be late for trig. 

you pick up your shirt with two fingers and lay it out on the bench, doing the same with your jeans. your bra and underwear, bundled together, half landed in a watery footprint and you place them on the wooden bench as well. 

you can’t fucking wear this.

not with half the damn day left. 

you blink, seeing your bag in the locker, your clothes on the bench and 

“my gloves,” you mumble, mostly to yourself. 

the took your fucking gloves. 

you stand up, shivering now in your towel, and you search your locker. you search your locker and the neighbouring lockers, 

but your gloves are gone. 

you check your clothes and your backpack but nothing. 

they’re not there. 

you run a hand through tangled, sopping hair and force yourself to take a deep breath. you’ve got extra gloves in your other locker, your actual locker – but right now you don’t have dry clothes. 

you know who did this. 

sally fucking michaels. 

maybe chrissie too, to get back at you for kissing her. 

fuck.

you get dressed, slipping into wet clothes because you’re not going back out to mrs. green and making a big deal out of this. you’re not going to give sally and possibly chrissie the satisfaction of knowing that this got to you. 

no. 

you’ll get dressed and you’ll go to your locker to get new gloves and you’ll take your stupid trig test. 

it will be fine. 

or, it won’t be fine because you’re angry and you see sally next period which means you’ll have to look at her smug face and hear whatever snide comments she makes about your wet jeans. 

so you get dressed and you hate wearing wet jeans. you wish for half a second that shirley was still around because you could have at least told her and she would have at least been angry with you instead of - 

you pause, one hand around the door to the locker room that leads to the hall. 

you’ve found your gloves. 

they’re in the trash by the door. 

they’re covered in what you think is yoghurt and something else unidentifiable. they were not placed there on accident and the yoghurt didn’t just spill onto them. 

no. 

this was fucking deliberate. 

of course it was. 

you look down at your gloves one last time, painfully reminded of the last time someone took your gloves away, and let out long sigh, grabbing at the straps to your backpack before leaving the locker room. 

iii.

mercedes is six and a half years old. 

she’s sitting in the playroom that serves as your office and working intently on a picture as you sit quietly, watching without watching as you draw a picture of your own. you’re drawing a butterfly, not that you have much in the means of artistic talent, but butterflies are useful analogies when talking to children, so you draw them while you let mercedes have free reign over a collection of construction paper, crayons, coloured pencils and markers. she’s working intently on her picture, 

one you asked her to draw, 

and so far you see what must be mercedes mom, her younger sister, an older brother and then - 

you watch curiously as mercedes starts on the only member of her family left, her dad, christian. where everyone else was drawn in crazy colours with purples and greens dominating the clothing choices, christian is a stick figure of black crayon. 

well, 

that gives you a starting point anyway. 

you continue working on your butterfly until mercedes puts down her crayon and looks across the table at you “i like your picture, theo.” she says. 

you smile as she says your name, it’s a step, it means she’s starting to trust you.

“thank you.” you say “i like your picture.” 

“it’s my family.” mercedes says matter-of-factly “my mom and kendall and me and adrian and dad.” 

it’s a picture like every other one that kids draw for you. stick figures, wild clothes and a square house with a triangle roof. sometimes though, more often than you’d like, there are monsters in the attic, in the basement. inventions of their minds to protect them from whatever horrors they’re going through. mercedes is much the same, but she doesn’t need monsters to understand and process her trauma. you think she knows what’s happening and she’s put it right there in her picture. 

“who’s this?” you ask, one gloved finger pointing to michelle, mercedes mom. 

“that’s my mom.” mercedes smiles “and that’s my sister, kendall. and that’s me,” she follows your finger with her explanations, “and that’s adrian, he’s eleven.” 

“is he a good big brother?” you ask. 

mercedes goes very serious “yeah.” she says “he’s a good big brother.” 

you move along to the stick figure at the end, the one all in black crayon “who’s this?” 

mercedes looks away “that’s my dad.” 

there’s a pang from somewhere deep in your chest as you listen to her say those three words. that alone has told you more than you need to know, but you press on, seeing if mercedes can share more information “he got fired.” she says “so mom is working all the time now.” 

“and is your dad at home a lot?” 

mercedes nods. 

“do you like it when he’s at home?” 

there’s a pause, and then you say gently, 

gently 

“you’re safe here mercedes, you remember how i told you that last time?” 

she nods. 

there’s a long silence and then mercedes reaches out, running her fingers along the seam of your gloves. it takes everything in your power not to snatch your hand back, but you’re watching her with tension dropping down your spine as she asks “do you always wear gloves?” 

you exhale and nod, turning your palm up so she can keep tracing patterns along the glove “most of the time.” you tell her. 

she looks up at you “why?” 

for a moment you consider your answer and then say “because the make me feel safe.” which is true, true to an extent. they do a lot more than make you feel safe but that’s all mercedes needs to know. 

she seems to consider this, consider you before she asks “can i wear them?” 

“sure.” you nod “you can try them on.” 

“maybe they’ll make me safe too.” mercedes says so quietly you almost miss the words. 

you take the gloves off slowly, deliberately. you let the tips of your fingers brush along the back of mercede’s hands as you help her slip tiny hands into comparatively gigantic gloves. by now you’re used to this, 

to being hit by a train when you take a kids hands in your own. there’s fear, there’s so much fear coursing through mercedes – but there’s love as well. there’s love for her mom, for kendall, but love for adrian most of all. and fear, not of adrian, for adrian. 

mercedes giggles “they’re big.” she says, holding her hands up and looking at them. 

“how do they make you feel?” you ask. 

“silly.” merecdes says, and then, falling more serious “they make you feel safe? when you wear them?” 

you nod “they do.” 

“adrian makes me feel safe.” she says. 

“safe how?” you ask gently, gently, knowing the answer before mercedes says it. 

“safe from dad.” she says “adrian says he gets angry cause he got fired and he lost his job and mom is gone all the time so he’s angry all the time.” 

“does your dad hurt adrian?” 

mercedes looks away “i’m not supposed to tell anyone.” she says. 

you reach for her hand, her hand swallowed in your gloves “you can tell me.” you promise “it’s my job to help keep you and adrian and kendall safe.”

“you can do that?” 

you nod “i can do that.” you tell her, knowing the phone calls you’ll have to make in fifteen minutes time. 

“okay.” mercedes sighs, then “can i wear your gloves?” 

“course you can.” you tell her, bracing yourself for whatever horrors mercedes has experienced. 

\+ i

by the time you’re free and away from the courthouse, the sun has dipped below the horizon leaving everything awash in the orange glow of street lamps. they’re a comfort in the sense that they’re familiar. after a day listening to lawyers and being interrogated by a particularly voracious defence attorney, to step away from the tension of the courtroom and into the cool evening air is a welcome relief. you walk down the steps, away from your day and all it’s stress, towards trish. 

she lives half a mile away from the courthouse, a convenient location despite the size of the shoebox she calls home.this is only your second time going there. the first being a few weeks ago, after meeting her at the club and not wanting more disapproving looks from shirley in the morning, you’d suggested and probably surprised trish, by suggesting her place. she’d agreed and it was only the morning after, walking up to her arm over your waist, that you’d been confronted with the depths of your own feelings. more specifically, your feelings for trish. it wasn’t the first time you’d gone to someone elses place for late-night sex; but it was the first time you didn’t sneak out in the early hours. it was also the first time you stayed for coffee and conversation and, 

you’d known you were fucked the moment you’d looked across the cramped living room at trish and felt your heart stutter in your chest when she smiled in your direction. 

the plan tonight hadn’t always been to go to trish’s for dinner. except court has left you drained and exhausted in a way that, even at the lunch recess, you knew you didn’t want to be on your own tonight. or more specifically, you want to be around trish. you’re seeking out the comfort that her presence provides, a comfort you’re still trying to work out in your head. so you’d called her and it had gone down like this, the memory of the phone call playing itself out in the back of your mind. 

_you’re standing outside, just far enough from a collection of smokers that you won’t come away from lunch reeking of cigarettes. you’re listening to the endless ring of trish’s phone, trying to hold on to the bravery that got you dialling her number in the first place. it takes everything in you not to hang up, not to decide that this was a bad idea and -_

_“hey,” comes trish’s voice on the other end of the line “how’s court?”_

_“shit.” you say honestly “really fucking bad.” and then, before you lose your nerve “want to get dinner tonight?” you exhale “it would be really nice to see you.”_

_half a second of pause and then, then you can hear the smile across her face “how about i cook?” she offers “you can come to mine, we can have some wine, relax.”_

_fuck that sounds perfect._

_“yes.” you say, immediately feeling lighter for having asked for something, for having asked for what you need, what you want “what can i bring?”_

_“just yourself.” trish says, and you hear her smiling, you hear the anticipation in her voice._

_“thank you.” you tell her, meaning it deeply, honestly._

_“you don’t have to thank me.” trish says “you’re allowed to ask to see me, in fact, as your girlfriend i encourage it. especially when you’re having shit days.”_

_“i can’t wait to see you.” you say all at once and then hang up._

_because you’re an adult with a good grasp of your emotions and feelings._

_clearly._

__

by the time you get to trish’s apartment block, you’re already feeling better. knowing that you’re not going back to the stillness and silence of your own home has taken some of the weight off your shoulders. there’s relief in knowing that you’re going to see trish in a few short minutes, that you’ll distract yourself by hearing about her day, and eating and maybe, 

maybe,

talking about court. 

you press the buzzer to her apartment and hear the grating metallic sound persist for several seconds until a tinny 

“come on up.” filters through the half busted speaker; followed by the lock on the door sliding away. 

the foyer is empty, a wall filled with mailboxes on your right, the elevator directly in front of you and some stairs to the left. you eye the elevator, a tiny box of a thing, and head for the stairs. trish doesn’t live that high up and a little more exercise will do you some good. so you take the stairs, walking up and up to the third floor with your heart beginning to thrum in anticipation. this, you’re aware, is another sign. never, in your history of dating or fucking anyone, have you felt like this when confronted with the prospect of seeing them. although it’s nothing compared to the full blown gymnastics routine your heart does when, stepping out onto the third floor, you see trish standing in the open doorway. 

she’s dressed down in jeans and a v-neck t-shirt. her hair is tied back and as soon as she registers that it’s you coming from the stairs she breaks into a full-blown smile. 

“hey you,” she says. 

“hi.” you exhale, smiling – albeit softer – in return “thank you.” you say, again. 

“you don’t have to thank me.” trish says, letting you step into her apartment first and closing the door behind her “this isn’t some favour i’m doing for you.” 

you nod “i just want you to know i appreciate you.” you tell her “i mean, you cooked us dinner.” you add, nodding towards the kitchen where delicious smells have filled the entire apartment. 

you shrug out of your jacket, handing it to trish who hangs it on a hook inside a closet. you reach for your gloves, two fingers grabbing the index of your right hand when trish says 

“you can keep them on.” and then “if you want.” she adds. 

you still, mind caught, words stuck on your tongue as trish ploughs on “i just mean, you took them off the last time you were here. and i notice you do it sometimes when i’m around, and i notice you get tense and, i don’t want you to think that you have to take them off just because you’re at my place, or i’m around or whatever.” 

“i know it’s weird.” you say, watching trish step in front of you “that i wear gloves all the time.” 

“i don’t care.” she says her gaze flitting from your face, to your hands and back again, “can i hold your hands?” she asks, 

and fuck,

she asks and she’s gentle and you know if you said no, she wouldn’t press but -

“yes.” you nod. 

she takes your gloved hands in her own, ungloved ones “you’re so much more relaxed when you wear them.” trish says “when you don’t have them on, it’s like you’re waiting for something bad to happen. and i don’t want you to feel like that around me. i’m not telling you what to do.” she says “i just, i should have said this before, should have said it sooner but i didn’t know how. i asked so many questions about them that first night and i feel like such a dick about it. you shouldn’t have to justify your choices to me, or anyone and-” she pauses, exhaling “and i’m sorry if i said too much or crossed a line.”

you bite your lip, using the spark of pain to ground yourself “you haven’t.” you say, shaking your head even as tears spring to your eyes against your will “i, i didn’t know how much i needed to hear that.” you say, voice wavering unexpectedly. 

and that’s the truth of it. 

to hear trish say that she doesn’t care about the gloves, that you can wear them and she doesn’t think they’re weird or odd or gross, it releases a knot in your chest that you didn’t even know was there. 

“i should have said it sooner.” trish says, halfway to an apology before you stop her with a kiss. 

a gentle kiss, pulling her closer to you and savouring the moment. 

this moment. 

you feel her tongue swipe along your lower lip and you part them in response. you allow yourself to be lost in the way she holds your hands and how fiercely she kisses you back, the rest of your day fading away.

**Author's Note:**

> i have Thoughts and Feelings and Emotions about theo that apparently will not leave me alone. so here we are. 
> 
> i am on tumblr at 4beit if you want to come shout at me or with me about the hauntings.


End file.
